She’s the goddess that looks at you through a veil of apathy. I’ve composed songs in her honour, but all I got in return was a tight smile and a request for more wine.

I asked her why she chooses to walk amidst us lowly humans and she called me strange. When I looked at her spotless skin and red lipstick that never fades, I can feel her resonate in my chest, somewhere between desire and resent.

Drunk on sour wine and Nick Cave lyrics I told her she was half angel, half frigid bitch. She smiled then, almost fondly, before telling me to deal with my issues and drink a glass of water.

In retrospect, I think she collected people like me, in a poor attempt to start a religion around her long legs.


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